The Death of Ruth (6 page)

John was filling his pipe and his hands shook with nervous tension. I loved him dearly, my heart ached for him, but my voice was cold, as I said, ‘It's no use talking about buying a truck, Rob. The cold fact is that people can only sell that which belongs to them and this house belongs to me. This property is legally in my name. It belongs to Mary Heather Blake, and I am not selling it …'

The evening had been a dreadful one—especially for John—and this morning, as I watched him trudging along towards the bus stop I wept bitterly. Then, after he had turned the corner I walked briskly through the house—I never drag my leg when alone—and I noticed that John had not washed up his breakfast dishes as has become his habit, and that he had not finished drinking his much loved coffee.

I felt the coffee pot, it was still hot so I poured myself a mug of coffee and carried it out to my garden. I intended to begin building up about the camellia bushes, for the ground has sunk again, quite a bit. Over the years I had harvested loads of rock and soil from the vacant land beside us. Now I am concerned knowing that soon that supply route will be lost to me.

How were my weeds coming along? Not a weed to be seen! I have bad luck with weeds. Everything flourishes in my garden, except weeds, and yes, in a way, the camellias,
for although the bushes are sturdy and covered with glistening leaves, no flowers ever come into bloom. Always when the seasons for camellia flowers arrive I arise at dawn every day, and going to the garden, I pinch off the small, hard buds. I am fanatical about the matter. Never, never, could I endure seeing flowers bloom on
those
bushes.

This morning, after loading my hand-cart with rocks, I trundled it across the lawn, pleased to see how the wheels scarred and tore at the grass. Later on I will be able to fill in time by attending to the damage I was intentionally causing. Sometimes, to create work for myself, I perform remarkable acts of vandalism. I wish that the garden were twice its size.

I have decided to break up the present rock-garden, completely, and build it again from scratch. It will take some time. A week? Ten days maybe? Or, if I remember to go slowly, even longer.

I like working in this spot, by the rock-garden, because here I can talk to Ruth. She and I had never been close, not really, for it had been she who had always done the talking, telling me of her troubles and airing her complaints. I, not having had troubles in those far-off days, or any complaints to make, had no need to talk, but, now, ah, these days
I
have all the troubles and I am full of complaints and Ruth hears them all.

This morning I told her how I had witnessed the breaking up of a man's dreams, of how I had torn away every shred of pride and hope that John possessed.

When I had dropped the bombshell, about my owning and not being willing to sell our property, John had eventually cried out, half laughingly, ‘Hey, hey, hold everything! Certainly the house was put solely in your name, Molly, because, and
only because
, I care for you. Because with the house legally in your name and if I died before you, then you would be left better off.'

John had continued on, at first calmly, then angrily, then
furiously. Then with great kindness, then, like a beggar, he implored me to give in, to change my mind.

I sat listening to him, my face expressionless, but every word he spoke cut deep. Finally, I replied calmly, saying, ‘John, the law is the law. The house is legally in my name. I am not stupid. I know as well as you do how it
came
into my possession. Why go on about it? I will never part with it. Please stop worrying and pestering me.'

Then I had picked up my flashlight, put on my old cardigan and I had gone out into the dark garden to begin my usual nightly snail hunt.

John had not followed me, and this morning, just before he left, he said, ‘Molly, for the love of God, won't you change your mind about selling the house?'

‘No John,' I said, and he called me destructive. I went into my bedroom and shut the door. Then I came out and watched him walking away, along the street, and he looked so despondent, so tired, and I loved him so dearly that my heart felt as though it was about to burst open.

And about Jodie, Ruth! That hysterical scene she put on! Yes, your daughter, Jodie, all her dreams went bust, because of me. And Rob—Ruth, it was pathetic to watch Rob's nice, but always twitching, face as he saw his dreams fade. Ralph, well, he played his part as I had played mine.

Ruth, Ralph keeps away from me just as I keep away from him. You might think that our guilt—my guilt, that is—and his knowledge of it, should draw us together, but that is not so.

Ralph has become a little strange, Ruth, and in all the world no one knows why, but I. I know that he knows where you are because he put you here, but there are times when I think that he has forgotten. He appears so serious, so sincere about his searching for you, about expecting you to return home of your own volition.

When I hear him talking to John I am almost sure that he has forgotten, and that would mean of course, that he is
losing his mind, but then, he will catch me looking at him, and I know that he remembers only too well. Ralph and I understand and sympathize with one another, but we do not talk about you … ever.

I can no longer recall the happiness, the simplicity, of life as it used to be. Yes, Ruth, even in death you are powerful and destructive. You take all human dignity from me, I have become your slave. It is incredibly horrifying to have become the slave of a corpse. I see no beauty anywhere. My gaze is focussed only and always on you. Food has lost all flavour. I am unable to sleep. I …

Ruth, everything is your fault! You were too harsh, too cruel. No one really cared when you, well—when you died. If Ralph had cared for you, really cared, it is most likely that I would have spent these past years in prison.

Ruth, I am beginning to wish, very much, that you had been nicer to Ralph and that he had called the police that day, but what is done is done.

Really Ruth, you have no idea how my attitudes, my ethics, have changed. Remember how you always revelled in newspaper reports of murders and how I could not bear to hear about them? Well, that has all changed and these days, I take a deep interest in them. I never want a criminal caught. When a murder is committed and no one is arrested for it, I feel as though I am not so unusual after all, and that most probably there are many cases such as ours. People disappear. The police make enquiries. The person is listed as missing, when, actually, like you—you are listed as missing, Ruth—they are dead. Dead—and buried …

I am always extremely pleased when one of the missing persons does turn up—alive, I mean. Whenever that happens, Jodie and Rob become excited and Ralph goes into his act of how he just knows that one of these days you are going to arrive at the front door. I used to be embarrassed by Ralph's artificial goings on but now I take little notice.

It is amazing the number of people that get away with murder, Ruth. In this very city of ours, during the past three years, I could tell of at least four very spectacular cases. Persons high up and quite important have been murdered, and no matter how arduously the police and the analysts and the detectives and the public have worked and tested and inquired and talked, these crimes have not—as yet—been solved. Never will be in all probability.

Ruth, I have a dread of the police. Several times during the past three years different policemen have come here. I have heard the door bell ring, gone to the door, and each time I have nearly passed out … cold. Big, tall, uniformed men standing there. I …

Oh, yes, I tell you, I have had some formidable shocks. It does not matter that those men were merely making enquiries, wanting to know if I kept a dog or a television set, and if so, did I have a licence? It just matters that for days after my nerves would be shot to pieces.

My life is dreadful. Every facet of my life is sad and dreadful.

Ruth, have I told you the news about Mr Grey? He has been promoted. He has become quite an important man. I read about his promotion in the newspaper. I am glad that he has ceased coming to see Ralph. It was shattering when he used to call. I believe, though, that Ralph still sees him occasionally, for Ralph was telling John only a few weeks back that Mr Grey is still interested in your disappearance.

Well, as long as he keeps away from here, that is all I ask. I wish him every success, I hope he really gets to the top of the tree and then his mind will be on higher and more important things than the disappearance of Ruth Moyston—of you.

Ruth, the camellia bushes are quite tall now. Remember when they were so small and how pleased John was when they had their first flowers? He was specially thrilled with the centre bush because of its pure white flowers. I like the
two pink ones best, but John always adored white flowers. That is why I grow so many—white flowers, I mean—but he does not notice flowers any more.

John has given up noticing, wanting other things too. I can't speak about that.

Sad, yes, everything is very sad in my life. My sister Madge died recently. I miss her so much, she was the only friend I had left. All my friends have given me away, or perhaps I gave them away? I don't quite know. Of course, I have given up going to church, and you know how I worked for the Ladies' Aid and how I loved Sundays and going to church.

I could not even bring myself to attend Madge's funeral service. John was profoundly shocked; he told me that I was peculiar. Peculiar! That was the word he used, and he was correct. I am peculiar, and as well as that I am weary from the strain of life and of the distress I cause John and …

Ruth! Ruth! Right now—at this moment—two cars are driving on to the land next to us. I see a group of men. They are getting out of the cars, strolling about, looking the place over and one of them is coming in our direction, he is putting his head over the fence. He is calling to me, asking if I am the owner, the one refusing to sell this place of ours.

Ruth, I am going to pretend that I am deaf as well as lame. From now on, I shall be hard of hearing. In a moment I will look up and pretend to see him for the first time and I will pretend to get a shock and when he speaks, I will look vacant and point to my ears.

He has gone now, Ruth. The man has gone back to join his mates. This business of building the apartments is, I fear, a calamity, a …

Calamity!
What a terrifying word … And, oh dear God, what have I done? The rock-garden is a complete wreck—a shambles! I had not meant to upset it quite so much.

Never mind, it is all to the good. It means that I will be seriously, fully occupied for a few weeks at least. Ruth, it is midday, I am going in to have a cup of coffee, eat a hunk of cheese, and with all my heart, I wish you were alive and able to sit and have coffee with me.

Since Molly's refusal to sell our home—home? property is a more suitable word—I spend as little time as possible in her company. Apart from my anger at her outrageous behaviour, it distresses me to see the woman she has become. What has caused this deterioration of my wife's personality? I am always trying to find a reason, any reason at all, but I remain puzzled.

I often think back to the time when we first met. It was just after World War II. I had not been accepted into the armed forces because although hale and hearty in every other respect, I had a back injury which, although cured later, was considered to be incurable at that time.

In some quarters I had been considered a coward, which naturally had caused me painful embarrassments, and also had prevented me from getting a good job, preference always being given to those young men who had bravely done their stint during the war years.

Molly was the first girl I ventured to date. She had been working as a sales girl in a department store, and her gentle manner, her obvious liking and admiration for me, not only soothed my inner hurts, but also bolstered my ego. Although our first date had consisted of a Sunday after noon walk through the botanic gardens and tea and toast at the cafeteria there, she, Molly, seemed to enjoy every minute.

Our Sunday dates had continued and had graduated into regular Saturday evening dates as well. We would go to the movies, see a film, and always part with the unspoken of, but understood, Sunday date.

Once, we had gone to a live theatre and even now, twenty years later, that evening stands out in my memory. For months, I had put a little cash away each pay day towards the great event, about which Molly had known nothing. I had embarrassed myself and asked one of the fellows in the office if he would lend me his formal dinner suit. Rather unwillingly, he had agreed and perhaps sensing my embarrassment, he had told me that the suit actually belonged to a friend of his. ‘For God's sake, John,' he had pleaded, ‘Don't let anything happen to it.' I had promised, and indeed the evening was at times spoilt for me because of my worry about my friend's friend's suit.

When the cash box held enough for the theatre tickets—and for dinner in a good restaurant—I had asked Molly, seemingly casually, ‘Care to have dinner, take in a stage-show next Friday?'

Her gasp of pleased excitement rewarded me as I had seldom been rewarded in life. However, I thought that her enthusiasm had waned a little at the mention of formal attire. ‘Meet you on Friday, then,' I had said, adding as a parting shot, ‘We'll dress formally! I have dress circle seats for us!'

‘Oh,' she murmured rather uneasily, and when I asked her what was wrong she said, lightly, ‘Nothing. Nothing at all! Everything's fine! I'll meet you at six-thirty, and John, I am so pleased and excited.'

We were married for some time before Molly confessed the agonies that
she
had gone through, borrowing a formal dress, a wrap and an evening bag, from various girl friends so that she could do the great occasion justice.

In some ways it had not been a completely enjoyable experience. Too much sacrifice had gone into the saving of the money. Molly and I were strangers to each other in our borrowed plumes, and both of us—unknown to the other—had been nervous of any mishap to them. But we enjoyed that show and we enjoyed the trip home, during
which we spoke of and argued, praised, criticized the play, and laughed as we never had before.